


Kuwabara, Kuwabara?

by Sharyrazade



Series: Kindred Spirits [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Metal Gear
Genre: 1956 Hungarian Revolution, Banter, Crack Crossover, Cultural Differences, Dark Crack, Every named character is an asshole here, Explicit Language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's Volgin what did you really expect?, M/M, Misogyny, Murder, Power Dynamics, Rivalry, Sadism, Soviet Union, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12959367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharyrazade/pseuds/Sharyrazade
Summary: A particular operative transferred back from Hungary proves exceedingly irritating to the colonel for some reason he simply cannot place.





	Kuwabara, Kuwabara?

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to do something a bit different with this one; namely two despicable characters interacting who just made me sick on a visceral level.

 He always hated dealing with the infamous colonel for any number of reasons; no small part of this was due to his unique blend of capriciousness and viciousness. What exactly did a call to the Thunderbolt's office mean? Did it mean a scolding, a promotion? Did it mean a demotion, a one-way reassignment to the most forsaken corner of the Far East or Kazakhstan? Did it mean an ass-kicking, a bullet to the back of the head, or worse? There was simply no way to know. 

"Colonel," began one of the MPs, gingerly handing over the manila file folder. "one of the recent transfers has been...less-than-receptive to reprimands and sanction."

Scanning the file disinterestedly, the scarred giant's expression turned to a bored sort of scowl. "So Meike's dug up enough of his bosses' skeletons to get one of his problem children reassigned here, eh?" he remarked. "Fine, I'll straighten him out."

"Actually, sir, while it doesn't preclude the possibility, his train tickets were in Hungarian. His papers seem to confirm he was there legitimately also."

"It seems even the Magyars think he's a rabid dog. I'm honestly kind of surprised they didn't try to unload him on Bucharest."

* * *

As scientists and technicians from across the Warsaw Pact states, the vast majority of the workers in Groznyj Grad's hangars were only scarcely acquainted with the gruesome inner workings required to protect their countries' own and brotherly systems from capitalist and American sabotage. Much as with Bismarck's semi-apocryphal adage about concerning laws and sausages, the men felt a sense of macabre pride at belonging to an alliance that made even the mighty Americans tremble under the "protection" of Moscow. Yet thanks to a certain transfer, they were "treated" to a guided tour of said butchery. Despite their often-visible discomfort or disgust, the poor bastards listened to the transfer intently, as though their lives in fact, depended on it, which was not an unreasonable assumption.

"-and since he wouldn't sell out his friends," continued the giant gleefully. "well, ever seen what truck rolling over some guy's head will do? There's nothing quite like it, I tell you."

The scientists and technicians chattered nervously among each other, whether in their own tongues or that of their neighbors before being silenced with a glare even more hateful and murderous than its owner's default expression. "Ah, they're stubborn bastards, everyone knows that." continued the transfer (to a few Romanians chattering as though that were obvious). "But those Magyar whores....Heh, heh, heh...Nothing like them, no matter how much they fight, scream, or try to bite you; even better is forcing their men to watch 'til your done with 'em."

While none of these men were exactly hardened Chekists (or complete, utter psychopaths to the degree that any difference existed between them) and naturally made quite uncomfortable by the insinuations, the Hungarians were, unsurprisingly, absolutely livid, no doubt recalling the treatment many of their wives, daughters, sisters, and friends received at the hands of their eastern "liberators." Indeed, one Magyar, one eye twitching beneath his spectacles, fought with all his willpower not to fatally drive the letter opener in his hand into the brute's eye (and his brain by extension). Interestingly enough, the one individual who one may expect to actually take a liking to the fiend, did not seem pleased as he strolled into the hangar.

"You there!" Volgin barked. "Your identification papers! Now!"

Sighing with a bored sort of annoyance, the interloper produced several folded, wrinkled, stapled-together sheets of paper from his back pocket. The colonel scanned the documents carefully, his predator's eyes seeking out any possible imperfections with the photograph (or admittedly-worn text), cursing to himself at his inability to find any. Who exactly was this uppity bastard, Volgin wondered harshly.

While paler than even him and lacking much of his scarring, the musclebound brute quite clearly towered over the generally-slight technicians and scientists, the irate commander still able to make out the strawberry blond roots on his scalp and stubble. With that said, something just pissed him off about the transfer to no end - his smug, beady little eyes and that smirk, that _fucking smirk_ of his!

"Is there a problem, _colonel_?" Hans inquired, his tone somehow managing to be both obsequious and mocking.

"You know damn well what the problem is, lieutenant." he scolded. "I'll not have you making any more trouble on my installation."

"Your installation, sir? Last I checked, we're a good ways away from the Kremlin."

Volgin scowled harshly. "Oh, this one's got a smart mouth, eh? Well, I would watch that around these parts if I were you-"

 

Still visibly dwarfed by the (other) hulking sadist, against both his better judgement and instincts, Hans allowed himself a moment of pained wincing and shirking body language as the implications of the warning sunk in before being granted a riposte by an unusually-androgynous man handing off another file folder to Volgin.

"Colonel," he began, handing the files off to his superior. "the files you requested earlier."

"Oh, yes." replied Volgin, as if snapped from a sort of trance. "Thank you, major."

The Thunderbolt answered Hans' self-satisfied, highly-amused grin with a murderous scowl. "What? Something amusing you?"

"So why you so nice to him?" asked Hans, now openly mockingly. "He going to suck your cock later?"

Volgin's scarred visage reset to a serious, rather-neutral expression. "Yes, what of it?"

The other brute's expression reset to a similar default. "Oh, okay then." he responded deflatedly. _Well, that didn't go how I thought it would._

 

Returning the mangled papers to Hans' person, his superior nonetheless left him with a scowl of annoyance and disapproval. "You're on thin ice here, lieutenant. Remember that."

"Whatever you say, _colonel_."

Volgin gave little indication of his actual feelings about the meeting as he stomped from the hangar, much to the relief/terror of the scientists and technicians. Until of course, he smashed a private's face in with his fist and sent him headfirst into some steel piping, the poor slob ultimately rendered comatose from his cerebral hemorrhaging before dying eight months later.

**Author's Note:**

> There is really no reason I had for Hans having it in for the poor Magyars. He's a major asshole, that's all the reason I need. I suppose it's because I'd envisioned this...sometime in the late 50s, since Groznyj Grad wouldn't be something that could be exactly built overnight and '56 would have seen the biggest commie bloodletting against them since the war. And canonically, Volgin would have been taking part in the shit Hans is describing, interestingly enough.


End file.
